| Life 'n Times In Cowboy Country
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Lost!
By Mag Mawhinney
Little six-year-old Jimmy sat quietly, eating his muffin and staring out my kitchen window. I could tell there was a question coming. He was always full of wonder and liked to chat.
�Gramma, is that a forest?� he asked, pointing to the row of trees in the distance. �Not really, dear,� I replied. �Those trees were planted by people at the golf course and there aren�t enough to be a forest. Forest trees are taller and they were planted by God. There has to be hundreds and hundreds of trees to make a forest.� It was then that I realized that my little grandson, who has lived in this city all his life, has only learned about forests through storybooks and videos. Satisfied with my answer, he tucked a tea towel into the back neck of his T-shirt, grabbed his plastic sword and ran into the living room. I came around the corner just as he jumped from the arm of the sofa, swinging his weapon at an imaginary foe and yelling, �Zap, zap! You die!�
I smiled at his antics and went about my household chores. All of a sudden, I heard a cry, �Gramma, Gramma! I hurt my heel and it�s bleeding. Make it stop.� Jimmy was petrified at the sight of blood.
Kneeling down to see what all the fuss was about, I reassured him, �Oh, Jimmy, that�s just a little scratch. Gramma will put some ointment and a bandaid on it. It�ll be fine.� To make him feel even better, I added, �When I was your age, I cut myself way worse than that. I was splitting kindling with my hatchet and it slipped. I cut my leg.�
Jimmy peered through his tears, �What�s �kindling�? What�s a �hatchet�?�
Again, I realized that his home has gas heat, so he wouldn�t know that kindling is small pieces of wood used to start fires. And he�s never gone camping, so he wouldn�t know about bonfires either. I explained what kindling was and told him that when I was small, all kids had their own hatchet�a small axe. He knew what an axe was, but asked, �Why didn�t you use a laser beam?�
I laughed and answered, �They weren�t invented yet.� Noticing that he had calmed down from his accident, I said, �Come on, Jim. Gramma has to go shopping. I�ll buy you a treat.�
After getting groceries, we stopped at the deli for some cut meats. When, Bill, the young man behind the counter, asked what I wanted, I said, �I�ll have 200 kilometers of that Black Forest Ham.� Bill just smiled and slapped some meat on the scale.
Jimmy tugged at my sleeve. �Gramma, its not �kilometers�. Mom always says �grams�.� �Whatever,� I said, waving my hand impatiently. I really didn�t care. After fifty years of working with ounces and pounds, I wasn�t going to let some Prime Minister and his cohorts tell me it was now something else. Grammas can be stubborn about things like that.
After we left the shopping centre, I pulled into a gas station at their full-service bay. When I didn�t get out of the car, Jimmy asked, �Aren�t you going to put your card in the hole and put the hose in the car?�
�No. The nice man will check the oil and wash the windshield after he puts the gas in,� I explained. Jimmy didn�t need to know I spent ten minutes, one time, trying to get the childproof cap off the gas tank. I had long given up on the idea of self-serve. Besides, the machine might eat my card.
On the way home, Jimmy munched on his ice cream bar, and we talked about school. He told me he was doing fractions now. In Grade One? I couldn�t believe it. In my day, fractions started in Grade Five. But, computers weren�t part of the curriculum then either. We were lucky to have textbooks, which often had to be shared.
Nearing suppertime, I found Jimmy dancing around the basement with a headset on. �Take that Pacman off, Jim,� I said. �I have to ask you something.�
He rolled his eyes. �It�s not a �Pacman�, Gramma. It�s a �Walkman�.�
�Whatever,� I said. �How would you like macaroni and cheese for supper? It�s your favorite.�
�O.K.,� he said, then launched into a running account of the �Goldeneye� game he plays on his home computer.
�You have to be careful, Jimmy. There�s a flu going through the computers,� I warned.
He stared at me with a puzzled expression, then his eyes lit up. �Oh, you mean a �virus�.� Then, using computer jargon, he continued talking about other games he plays. He lost me halfway through and I tuned him out. My mind wandered. All of a sudden, I wanted to stop the world to get off. Technology was spinning out of control and I couldn�t keep up.
Someday, soon, I must take Jimmy into the forest where I played as a kid and we�ll pick those wild, sweet blackberries that grow over stumps. When we sit down to a bowlful, covered with cream, I�ll teach him how to play �I spy with my little eye�.
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GRAMMA
A determined strength
embraces her stooped body
as her gnarled hands
hold the child, tenderly
profound wisdom
emanates from her eyes
behind thick glasses
the character,
written on her face,
wrinkles in laughter
and her timeworn voice
tells delightful tales
of days gone by.